His Ayesha—his—the Conde of Alarcos, proudest grandee of Spain—the favorite child of the Spaniard’s deadliest foe, the Sultan of Morocco.
The Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali’s next dispatch contained much important tidings concerning a twenty years’ truce to be concluded between the King Boabdil, of Granada, and the King Ferdinand, of Spain—and much graver gossip of the noble Conde of Alarcos, Ferdinand’s ambassador; of his high feats of arms, and gentle feats of courtesy—of how all the court admired him, and how the Lady Ayesha shunned him, and how she was less frequent at the falconry, less frequent at the chase, less frequent at the festival, less frequent at the royal banquets—and how her hand-maidens reported that their mistress sighed all the time and often wept, and sat long hours gazing upon nothing, and played no more upon her lute, nor sung the songs of Islam—and how she was—he feared—ill at ease, and pining for her native land.
And when Muley Abderrahman read the letter he shook his head, and muttered—
“Ay, she loves now, but it is the wrong one—a Nazarene, a dog,” and he tore his beard and wept. That night a royal courier rode hard from Mequiñez to Saleè, and the next day a fleet galley scoured the way across the narrow seas to the fair shores of Granada.
The embassy should return at once to Mequiñez. Now hour of delay—too late.
The embassy had returned the preceding day, but it was the Spanish embassy: and it had returned, not to Mequiñez, but to Cordova. And ere his master’s mandate had stricken terror to the soul of the Hadj Abdallah, the Spanish bells were chiming for the wedding of a Moorish maiden, now a Christian bride; and the Leila Ayesha, of Mequiñez, was the wife of the noble Conde De Alarcos: nor have I ever heard that she rued either of the changes.
Again Muley Abderrahman tore his beard, and this time from the very roots. But his wonted philosophy still consoled him, and after a little while he muttered—
“Allah, assist me, that I thought myself so wise—yet know not the heart of a woman! How should I?”
Leave thou some light behind thee, Some mark upon thine age; Let not a false fate bind thee— Write thou upon life’s page,
Some word of earnest meaning, Some thought, or else some deed, On which thy brother leaning, Unto better may succeed.
